


Slumber Party

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Crack Pairings, F/F, Femslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 13:20:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Myranda Royce and Walda Bolton have a sleep-over with some girl talk and cuddling.  I've always wanted to get those two adorable, chubby, practical ladies together in some way.  </p>
<p>Set in that nebulous AU where a bunch of Northern antagonists visit the Vale during wartime to seek alliances.    Just utter crackfic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slumber Party

“So how old is your husband?” Myranda asked, offering a candied fruit to Walda. She took it of course, sucking the crystallized sugar from her already sticky fingers, savoring the feel as the brandy that it had been stewed in warmed her throat as she swallowed it. It was still a shock to Walda that the Vale had pleasant things like this, tarts and desserts and warm beds, laughter and gossip and soft comforts. After Winterfell, she had almost grown accustomed to the severity of Northern deprivation during the long winter of wartime. But those things were behind her now and she could sit here in safety and await her husband’s return, hopefully with all of the strength of House Redfort behind him. Roose had thought to play upon the sympathies of Lord Horton’s boys, former companions of his late son, dear Domeric, and the relatives of his first wife, another sorry bit of dust beneath the Dreadfort. But Walda didn’t like to think on unpleasantries like the dead, or battle. She had had quite enough of that, and now that her son had been safely delivered and spirited away to a safe location, and her person ensconced here in the Gates of the Moon, she planned to enjoy herself. To surround herself with beauty and warmth and excess, all that she’d left behind when she’d gone from the Twins. It would be like the old days again. 

And she almost had a sister in this Lady Royce, who’d immediately enfolded her in an embrace, her rounded arms belying a strong grip as she pressed Walda to her, their breasts compressing from the closeness. Walda had flushed, had smelled the rosewater that Myranda Royce had generous sprinkled on her bosom, had colored further when her hostess had whispered in her ear, “Oh! Aren’t you a pretty, plump thing?” She was unaccustomed from any compliments save those of her lord husband, and while Roose was far from cruel to her, he wasn’t exactly forthcoming in praise of her many virtues, conveying his appreciation with a slight smile or a possessive touch. But Walda grinned in response, thanking the Lady Royce, addressing her as she had insisted by her first name, and leaving “Lady Bolton” behind as well. 

After all, they were behind closed doors and no one would care if propriety was abandoned. “So much cozier on these long winter nights!” Myranda had said as she had coerced Walda into her bed, and although her guest quarters were sumptuous, this was even more so. A large four-poster bed with lacy canopy, adorned with carvings of half-naked nymphs, leering satyrs grabbing their bare and positively burgeoning breasts. Pillows of all shapes and sizes piled upon the mattress, silks, velvets, laces, all made from the remnants of Lady Royce and her ladies’ frothy gowns. Paintings just as scandalous as the decorations on the furniture hung on the walls, half-clad lords and ladies in various compromising poses, their gazes directed seductively or mockingly at the viewer, the flush of a nipple here, the curve of a buttock there, and as Walda indulged on the sugary delights that were offered her, she took it all in, both impressed and slightly overwhelmed. 

“He’s older than I am,” she said, giggling, taking a sip of the champagne that Myranda offered, washing down the candied peach that she had just devoured, “Five and forty, if you must know.” 

“And you a maid of sixteen,” Myranda rejoined, her voice bubbling with amusement. She reached out an elegant hand, fingers clustered with rings, and stroked the apple of Walda’s cheek. It was hot to the touch. “I hope that he keeps you well. I hope that you aren’t too…bored.”

“Bored?” Walda asked, reclining on a pile of cushions. She finished the champagne, helping herself to a cream puff. “How on earth could I be bored with my Roose?” She smirked, but clumsily, trying to imitate the amused expression on her hostess’ face and failing adorably. 

“It is my experience that older men are somewhat lacking,” Myranda said, but when she noticed the snide expression on the other girl’s face, she gestured as if trying to draw her out. “There is something more, I knew it! Tell then!” Myranda said, sliding over next to Walda. They were both clad in their night dresses and although Walda’s wasn’t the picture of modesty with its low neckline, designed to catch her husband’s eye, and its short length, baring her dimpled knees, Myranda’s was positively scandalous, and Walda caught a full view of her breasts as the garment twisted in her haste. She took a pastry from the platter, licking the icing off and staring at her, eyes twinkling. “You can’t just stop there.”

“Roose always says that I must learn discretion,” Walda protested, but smiling, stifling a hiccup with the back of her hand. The champagne had gone straight to her head and she decided to worry about that later. 

“Come now, Walda,” Myranda said, wrapping her arm around Walda’s shoulders. She was so warm, both girls flushed from the drink and the roaring fire, another nicety that they had lacked in Winterfell’s drafty halls, and Walda found that she wanted to continue, wanted to please her companion, not only because she was their gracious hostess in time of need, but because she had been so kind to her, sharing her supper, her quarters, her protection. And she missed her sisters, Ami and Marissa at Castle Darry, or at least, she hoped that they and her mother were safe there. But that was too sharp to think upon, so Walda relented, letting Myranda’s hands smooth her hair back from her flushed features, fingers snaking through the tangled strands and working at the braided knot that her maid had made countless hours ago before the journey. 

“As long as you don’t tell,” she said. 

“And who would I tell?” Myranda replied, fingers working at the snarls, “For everything that is said here remains here. And of course, I will tell you secrets of my own, if you like.”

This piqued Walda’s interest. “You have secrets?” She closed her eyes, almost soothed by the other woman’s touch, wondering what sort of horrors that Myranda Royce concealed and how they might fall with her own, and thinking in the back of her mind, in almost her husband’s voice, just a whisper, that such things might prove useful to House Bolton if things did not go as planned in the Vale. However, she brushed it aside, as she did most of the time when such ideas occurred to her, and licked her lips, thinking of what would even interest this lady. 

“Everyone has secrets, little Walda,” Myranda said, untwisting a lock of hair and brushing the end against Walda’s face, tickling her. As she did, more of the knot came undone, and her hair slid down her back in waves, free from its confinement. “Oh!” she said then, pausing. “You look so lovely like that. You ought to wear your hair down like a real Northern lady.”

“Roose doesn’t think that it’s practical,” Walda said. 

“Roose is…practical?” Myranda repeated, mimicking Walda’s reverent tone. “In all ways?” 

“In some ways,” Walda said, giggling, “but that can often be to my advantage. After we were wed, there was so short a time until he would be called south, so we would lie together every day, sometimes twice…and several times, thrice.” She sighed, remembering how they would retire after dinner, how Roose had taught her how a lord’s clothing worked, teaching her the intricacies of lacings and fastenings, and she in turn, and turned his own clever fingers to her stays, her petticoats, her garters. It had been an education, but a pleasurable one. “Of course, he was so concerned about getting an heir. But all the same, I know that my lord enjoyed such couplings. The only time that he cracked a smile was when he’d see me lying on the mattress, stark naked, lying in wait. Couldn’t tear his eyes away from me, and couldn’t keep those cold hands off of me. I warmed them in oh, so many ways.” She trailed off, noticing the slow smile spreading across Myranda’s face, and without protest, took the glass of champagne that was offered her. “What? Am I amusing you?”

Myranda shook her head. “No, it’s just that you’re so darling. So sweet. And so in love when you speak of your beloved. I find it quite refreshing. All of these girls, sold in marriage to old men who roll on top of them, wheeze a bit, and then, goodnight!” She took a long swallow. “Such was my marriage, not a willing husband like your Roose, but a doddering white-haired ghoul who never gave me the time of day unless he felt the urge to come to my rooms, fumble around on top of me and when he’d spent what little he had left, he’d grab my breasts with shaking hands and thank me. Can you imagine?” she giggled. “Thank me. And he called them my treasure chest. I’d have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. And vent to my father. But father said that it would pay off, and one day it did.”

Myranda snuggled closer to Walda, and the other girl rested her head on Myranda’s shoulder. “Lady Royce,” Walda said, her words slurred from the drink, forgetting her vow to maintain casual relations, “your treasure chest is falling out of your nightdress.” She laughed, snorting a bit, shoulders shaking, and Myranda joined in, squeezing Walda with eager fingers, pulling her close, and they sniggered as though it was the finest joke in the world. “But what happened?” Walda said at last, when she had regained some control, still a little breathless. “Do you mean you gave him a son?”

“Look around you, do you see any children running about? No,” Myranda said, her eyes twinkling impishly, “one night…he died! Just like that!” 

“My sympathies,” Walda murmured, brushing her lips against Myranda’s cheek. She really did feel quite sorry for the girl, so young and a widow. 

“Sympathies? I was glad of it! I was free! And he left everything to me.”

“I supposed it is some comfort,” Walda said, remembering her training at her mother’s knee in courtesy. 

“And you know what the worst part is? He died in bed. Right on top of me. His seed running down my thigh.”

Walda gasped. She was feeling the champagne now, in every part of her, and was a bit dizzy from her overindulgence, but it did not dull her reaction as she imagined a corpse, heavy and lifeless, pressing down upon her as she lay clad in nothing save smallclothes. “Oh! Myranda!” She stroked her hair then, almost without knowing what she was doing. “How horrid, you poor dear.”

“Oh, that. I was fine. And he died with a smile on his face.” 

Walda burst into peals of giggles in spite of herself, collapsing onto the bed, still half-wrapped in Myranda’s arms. It was then that she noticed the tears that streaked her companion’s cheeks, and frowned to see them. “But you’re not fine, you’re weeping. Poor dear, poor thing,” Walda said, wiping away the moisture with the coverlet. “You do grieve for him, I know it.” She pressed her lips to Myranda’s forehead, not protesting when Myranda’s hands brushed against her unbound breasts, clutching the softness of her waist. 

“I wasn’t grieving, sweetling,” she murmured, “just tears from laughter, that’s all.” 

But Walda wasn’t quite convinced. She was practical, and yet, had a sentimental streak that she blamed on her marriage. “So that is your secret then?” she said, watching as Myranda toyed with the ribbons on her neckline, loosening them. 

“Yes, love, that’s it. Sorry to disappoint,” Myranda said, reclining and cuddling against Walda. 

“You haven’t,” Walda said softly, noticing that Myranda’s hands still rested on her body, fingers pressing into her belly. It was an intimate gesture, only one that her husband would make, and yet it did not trouble her. Lady Royce had been so kind, so accommodating, and so entertaining that she could not begrudge her the closeness, and when she kissed Walda full on the mouth, she did not protest. 

“Are all of your sleepovers thus,” Walda said when they parted. She really had not minded the kiss and hoped secretly to have another. “So…cozy.” She struggled to keep her eyelids open, and had had so much trouble sleeping without her Roose to curl against, and Myranda was so lovely, so attentive, so warm. She could not help but be charmed. 

“Only the best,” Myranda said just as softly, kissing her lips again, but drawing away to watch the girl sleep, a curious expression on her face. She was quite fond of Lady Bolton, and looked forward to more nights like these.


End file.
